


The Last Place You Look

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Admissions, Clubbing, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, John's Missing Something, M/M, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows something is missing in his life, and Sherlock wants to help. But as usual, it's a bit trickier than either one of them expects it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's Help Doesn't Help

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Fine. He had tried it. John had been down recently, like a homesick puppy, and when he suggested they go out to a club, Sherlock had only agreed because he knew that was what John used to do with his friends before. Before Sherlock. So he obliged. John had got them both drinks and then moved away from Sherlock, mingling. He chatted and danced, well, tried to dance. He would occasionally look over at Sherlock who, while refusing to join in, attempted (though probably failed) to look interested in the whole proceedings. A lie. He was interested in John, though. He studied him. He could easily tell which women John was most attracted to and which ones he danced with just out of kindness. But Sherlock could also tell that this evening was not soothing whatever had been bothering John. So Sherlock swallowed the last of his drink and reached for his phone.

_Come here. I'm taking you home. SH_

John felt the phone vibrate in his pocket, and he pulled it out to read the message. He looked up at Sherlock and shook his head.

_Come dance first. -JW_

Sherlock scowled. He glanced up, wondering if John had seen him scowl. But he couldn't see John who seemed to have been swallowed by the throng of people on the dance floor. Stupid people, no doubt, totally normal people. How John could tolerate being amongst them, Sherlock could not understand.

_I can't. You've disappeared. You come to me. SH_

John squeezed his way through the crowd and beckoned Sherlock with his finger.

Sherlock saw John, saw him motion for him. He didn't want to. For a variety of reasons. However, he supposed, given that the whole reason he came out in the first place was to cheer John up, he was probably obliged to do more than just stand in the corner scowling. He awkwardly moved through the crowd, doing his best to avoid bumping or being bumped by the moving bodies of stupid, normal people. He got to John, leaned in and said "Is this fun?"

John nodded. "Dance," he insisted.

Sherlock was good at pouting. Being good at pouting means knowing when to not even bother to pout. If John hadn't interpreted his original attempt at not joining in as Sherlock being a child, this one -- with all the noise and people -- was bound to be just as ineffective. So instead of pout, which is what he wanted to do, he tried to dance. It's not that he couldn't dance, he could; he just felt so awkward because it required letting go of control. No one had pointed or laughed, but, even with the drink, he just couldn't let go enough to enjoy it.

John watched Sherlock moving a bit awkwardly and without even thinking, he reached out and gripped his hips. "Relax," he said, moving Sherlock in time with him.

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled, "John, I am very rarely relaxed. You should know that. I hardly think I'm going to start here," rolling his eyes. But he didn't stop moving, and he didn't pull away.

"Don't make me physically show you," he warned. He knew if he could get Sherlock to enjoy it they could stay longer, and he needed this. The loud music, the dark, the drinks -- perfect to forget the fact that he'd lost yet another girlfriend. That he was likely to end up alone. That he'd never get the family he pictured. He bought a shot from a passing girl and downed it, wanting to forget all of that. 

"I am trying, John," Sherlock said. He, of course, had been counting John's drinks, and this shot meant that John had decided he wasn't drunk enough. Sherlock got the sense that John wanted to let something go, or just let go, but hadn't yet. The continued drinking and the dancing seemed to imply John had not given up on letting go just yet, though, so perhaps Sherlock's suggestion they come out might still do the job he'd intended it to do. Behind John, Sherlock saw a pretty woman who seemed to be watching John. He said, "There is a woman behind you who may be interested." 

John glanced back at her and smiled. "Are you going to leave the second I go dance with her?"

"I think it'd probably be wise," Sherlock said, "We don't want to give the impression that we are a package deal. To be fair, I think you'll probably enjoy yourself more without me."

John stopped dancing and sighed. "Why don't you go home? I'll get a cab when I'm finished here," John suggested. He looked back at the girl to make sure she was still interested. 

John seemed annoyed at Sherlock, which Sherlock didn't particularly like but he didn't want to make things worse. Sherlock stopped dancing as well. If he were honest, home seemed rather appealing to Sherlock -- it was too loud here to think. "I think I might do," he said. He grabbed John's hand and pulled him nearer, leaning into his ear to whisper, "Be good." He gave John a look and headed towards the door. But when he got to it, he stopped and turned to look back at the dance floor.

John started dancing with this woman, her hands resting on his hips as they moved. After a bit she turned around, her arse against John as they moved. His brain wouldn't stop. He wished the shot girl would come back. 

Sherlock watched John dancing with the woman. He looked . . . sweet really. Sherlock could see he wasn't completely comfortable but could see that he wanted to be. Despite the woman's grinding into John, Sherlock saw his head look up -- he knew John wanted another drink which meant he still hadn't let go whatever he was wanting to let go. He wished he could help John, but if alcohol and this woman's obvious flirting weren't what he needed, Sherlock had no idea what he could offer. He thought about leaving, about heading home where he really wanted to be, but decided not to. He leaned against the wall and kept watching.

The woman turned back to face him, pulling their bodies flush. Her legs were straddling John's thigh as they danced. "My skirt's a bit in the way," she said loudly, hiking it up a bit and grinning at John. He smiled only to be polite. This wasn't working: suddenly he felt very heavy and just . . . terrible. _This is stupid,_ he thought to himself. Who was he going to meet here but another one-night stand? He was tired of this. 

"I'm sorry, I have to go," John said. 

"What?" she asked annoyed, stopping immediately. 

"I have to go," he said again, and this time he didn't wait for a response. He started squeezing his way through the crowd and when he was out he looked to the door, surprised to see Sherlock still there. "I want to go home," he said quietly. He wondered if Sherlock even heard him over the music.  

Without speaking a word, Sherlock turned, pushed the door open for John and followed him out. They got into one of the waiting cabs. From the car window, Sherlock watched all the people they passed, all the stupid, boring, normal people. Without turning his head from the glass, he said, "You okay?"

"Yeah," John said. But he wasn't. Not even close. There had to be something wrong with him to make all of these girls run away. What were they all looking for that they couldn't find in him? What was he missing? Was it his height? His age? Had he put on more weight than he realised? _I should start running again._ Maybe he was being too picky, but did he want to just settle? If he did that then what was the point? The alcohol wasn't helping, twisting his thoughts into more depressing things than they should be. He'd never wanted to sleep so badly. 

"I only took you out because I could see something was bothering you. I thought it might help you relax. However, it appears you are still bothered, but now you're also drunk and a bit . . . sweaty. I apologise that my suggestion was of no benefit." Sherlock still had not turned away from the window.

"It was fun," John insisted. "I'm sorry you didn't enjoy it."

"It wasn't about me, it was about you. Are you saying you enjoyed it?"

John shrugged. "Better than sitting at home," he said. 

Sherlock could not have disagreed more. But, as he said, this wasn't about him. "Don't feel you ever need to sit at home on my account. If you enjoy this, you should do it more. If this is what you want, there should be nothing stopping you."

John nodded. "Thanks," he said quietly. He decided in that moment to take a break from girls for a while. From dating, from flirting, from all of it.   

"Anything you else you enjoy that you no longer do because of me?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "I don't enjoy the club, Sherlock. I enjoy who I meet there," he explained. "Well, I used to anyways. It has nothing to do with you, it has to do with me."

"I see. So you did not enjoy meeting the last one you danced with?"

John shook his head. The cab pulled up to the flat and he paid the fair, moving to the sidewalk. "I'm not a teenager anymore," he said, as if that explained everything. 

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Sherlock remarked as he unlocked the door. "I thought you said you had a horrible adolescence?"

John shook his head. "Never mind," he said. Once inside, he took off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. "I'm going to go lay down."

Sherlock hung up his coat and walked to the kitchen. He turned on the kettle. "Shall I bring you up a cup of tea when it boils?"

"Um. . . okay," he nodded, hoping it would soothe him enough to actually rest. 

Sherlock watched John trudge upstairs. He had two options: leave John alone to sort whatever was troubling him or pester him until Sherlock figured out the problem and then solved it himself. He decided to have one more go at sussing it.


	2. John's Problem

Sherlock carefully carried the teas upstairs and knocked with his knee on John's bedroom door, which was closed. "Tea," he said.

John was about to call out to him that the door was open, but he realised that he might be holding two mugs. He sighed and got up, opening the door for him and stepping aside so he could come in. "Thanks," he said. 

Sherlock set one tea on John's bedside table. The top drawer was party open but not enough for Sherlock to see in. Sherlock lifted his cup to his mouth but then his head rolled back and he collapsed into a heap, spilling the tea as the cup hit the floor.

John was out of bed so quickly he wondered if he ever even touched the ground. "Sherlock?" John shouted, falling down beside him. "Sherlock!"

In a low voice, Sherlock said, "Do not touch me."

John fell back onto his arse and scoot away from him. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock sat up and clasped his arms around his knees. "See," he said, "it doesn't feel very good, does it?"

"Are you . . . was that a trick?' John asked angrily, getting up off of the floor.  

"I thought a dramatic gesture might get your attention, John," Sherlock said as he stood and pulled down his jacket. "But the point is a fair one -- it's not a good feeling when something's wrong with your friend and he won't let you help him."

John blinked at him. "You scared me." he said, climbing back into bed. "There is nothing life threatening going on with me."

"Regardless," Sherlock said sitting on the edge of his bed. "Are you going to talk to me about this or not?"

John sank back against the pillow, putting his tea on the bedside table. "It's very sentimental," John warned. 

"I have prepared myself for that possibility," Sherlock said. "Go on."

"I'm tired of relationships not working out," John said quietly. "I just . . . want to settle down and start a family but no one wants me," he said. It sounded a bit silly out loud, but Sherlock had asked and that was the truth.

"I'm not sure no one wanting you is the problem, John," Sherlock said. "The woman at the club seemed to want you, but you didn't want her apparently. Maybe that's what is bothering you. Who you want."

"I didn't want her," John shook his head. "It would have just been another one night stand. No one sticks around," he sighed.  

"You say you want to settle down and start a family, but can't seem to find anyone to stick around long enough. Fine. So now we've established the problem. It seems to me there are three possible solutions to this problem. One--give up wanting to settle down. Two--change something about yourself so the people you meet do want to stick around. Three--meet better people. Which solution seems most sensible to you?"

John shrugged. "I can't control who I meet," he said. "What could I change?" 

"One, you're wrong," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "You _can_ control who you meet. You go to clubs where half the clientele are drunk women who aren't interested in settling down. Why be surprised then when you meet a drunk woman who is not interested in settling down? Two, what do you want to change? Do you want to settle down with someone who only wants you because you've changed who you are? Think logically, John."

"I meet girls other places," John countered. "That was the first time I've been to the club in years. And no one I meet is going to _know_ I changed," John said.

"I feel you may be deliberately missing my point," Sherlock said. "However, if you are prepared to change yourself for someone you haven't even met yet, that is your choice. It's a stupid choice, possibly one a normal person would choose. I didn't have you down as the stupid, normal type. However, if that's the choice you are making, what is it you think you need to change?"

"There's no need to make fun of me," John snapped. "I don't know what to do anymore. I'm just going to stop looking," he sighed. 

Sherlock smiled softly at John. "I apologise. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. I really did," he reached over and brushed John's arm. "I probably could be better at this, I know. Maybe you should take a break from looking. Maybe you've been looking too hard, trying too hard. Maybe it will come if you let it come naturally."

"And if it doesn't? I can't wait forever . . . I don't want to have kids when I'm sixty," he mumbled. 

"Well, if children are the issue, you could go get one yourself -- I'm sure being a doctor would improve your chances of adopting," Sherlock said. "However, I have to be honest with you, John." Sherlock stood up from the bed. "I think I have changed my mind about wanting to help you with this problem."

John turned to face him. "Wait, why?" he asked. 

"At first it was because I personally don't really think it is that big of a problem, but then I thought, it's not for me to judge, you obviously are worried. However, I'm not entirely convinced you want to solve this problem. You certainly know there's nothing about you that needs changing. I am sure you would like children but is your life really so bad as it is? Really? If it was, John, you would solve this problem. But you don't. You just . . . wallow."

"I'm allowed to be upset," John countered. 

"You certainly are," Sherlock responded. "But clearly I can do nothing to help with that upset. And you do nothing as well. So we are at a stalemate, and I have decided to forfeit. If the situation changes, be sure to let me know as my love for you means that I will always help when I can. But with this problem, I can't, I'm afraid." He left John's room and retired to his own.

John's mind had stuck on the word love, and he flopped down against the bed. Sherlock must have meant as a friend, but then when did he use words like that at all? He hardly used the word friend, let alone something sentimental like love. He shook that away and thought instead about Sherlock's advice. Give up. Well, he couldn't do that. That went against everything Sherlock had just told him, and against everything he was. What about changing himself? What was he supposed to change? What was wrong with him now? Sherlock, again, was right. He didn't want to spend his life with someone if he couldn't be himself. So that was also out. John sighed loudly and turned on his side. What else had he'd said? Oh. Figure out who exactly he wanted to be with.  

How could he do that? How was he supposed to know if he didn't know the person yet? He looked over to the spot Sherlock had just left. Whoever she was would have to be okay with him. If he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't want to stop going on cases. She would also have to get along with him because they would be seeing him all the time. _What are you dating him, too?_ The logical side of his brain snapped at him. He was thinking too much about Sherlock's role and why? How many dates would have worked out had Sherlock not called him to run off for a case? How many of them would have stuck around if Sherlock hadn't called them the wrong name, making it look like John was cheating on them? How could someone so smart forget so many names? _He doesn't._ The voice actually made John's brows crease. 

Did he use wrong names on purpose? Was he sabotaging John's relationships? For what? _My love for you._ John sat up suddenly, looking at the door Sherlock had just walked through. That couldn't possibly be what was going on. But what was going on? Maybe deep down John brought girls here on purpose, using Sherlock to scare them away so he wouldn't have to. But why would he do that? John got up and stormed out of his room. "Sherlock?" he called out. 


	3. The Solution

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, trying not to think. Trying not to think about how frustrating John was. There was nothing wrong with John, nothing John needed to change. It was maddening that he couldn't see that. Did he really think he'd be better off like all those people they passed on their cab ride home? Chasing, chasing, chasing after what? Nothing. That's not how people met and fell in love. It couldn't be. It didn't make sense.

The other thing that didn't make sense to Sherlock is why John was so dissatisfied with his life, with their life. As far as Sherlock concerned, things were ideal as they were. They were a good partnership. What more could John want? Yes, he mentioned children, but was that really what was missing for him? Sherlock was not convinced, and he wondered if John even fully understood. If John really wanted to meet a woman and run off and make babies with her, would he interrupt so many dates by running off with Sherlock and solving cases with him? He never had to come when Sherlock called, but he always did. It seemed like John enjoyed their life as well, but something was making him feel that he shouldn't, that he should want more. Was Sherlock not enough for John? Or did John just not want to admit that he was?

He was thinking again, and that was the opposite of what he was trying to do. He got up and took a pair of handcuffs and a stopwatch out of his drawer. Beating his last record would keep him from thinking. He locked his wrists in and pushed the button on the stopwatch with his tongue. Then he heard John call his name. 

"Sherlock!" John called again, moving through the sitting room and into the kitchen. He felt angry, felt too much, and he needed answers now. He needed to figure all of this out. 

The pressure of John's shouting not only ruined Sherlock's record, but it made him struggle to release himself. He hated shouting, but shouted, "I'm in my room," because there was little else he could do until he got his hands free. 

John followed his voice and pushed open the door. "I-- " He stopped and creased his brows. "What are you doing?"

"It appears I am stuck in a pair of handcuffs. Your voice distracted me. Would you please get the key out of the drawer and free me?" Sherlock was both embarrassed and annoyed -- it was his frustration with John that made him pick up the handcuffs in the first place and now John had disrupted that as well.

John sighed and moved to the bedside table, taking the key out and started to unlock the cuffs. "Why do you call my dates by the wrong name?" 

"Because they and their names seemed completely unimportant," he said honestly and, before John could interrupt, he added, "to you."

"To me?" John asked confused, pulling the cuffs off and tossing them on the bedside table. 

"Yes," Sherlock. "It is relatively easy to tell who is important to you. Have I ever forgotten Harry's name? Your face, your eyes, do a . . . thing. You have a look. I can tell when something or someone is important to you. And they never really seemed to be. So why should I bother to recall their names?"

John was surprised to feel a flash of anger. "So you just . . . you knew there was no hope so why bother? They're never going to stay with me anyways, right?" He turned away and squeezed the bridge of his nose. So Sherlock wasn't jealous at all, simply observant like he always was. 

"I don't doubt many of them would have stayed with you, John," Sherlock said simply. "I knew you wouldn't stay with them. And you didn't."

"They leave me, Sherlock, because we come here and you call them someone else and they think I'm cheating on them. You make fun of them, you call me away for cases and why the hell would they stay?" he asked, pacing back and forth now. . He took a deep breath. "I'm taking a break anyways, so it doesn't matter," he mumbled. 

"John, if it is important that you place the blame on me, I will shoulder that blame to ease your burden," Sherlock walked over to stand in front of John. "Blame me all you want, but know I have taken every lead from you. Yes, I have made fun of them. Because I make fun of stupid, normal people. Not just the ones you date. Yes, I call you. At inappropriate times. I call you because I need you. Sometimes simply because I want you to be with me. Why? Because I behave like a child." He leaned in closer to John's face and said, "But you know how to behave like an adult. You know how to not pick up a phone, you know how to act appropriately when on a date. Yet every time you choose to leave them and come to me. What does that tell you, John? Or more importantly, what does that tell them? They don't think you have someone else because I use the wrong name. They think you have someone else because you tell them you do every single time you leave them to come to me. A choice that you and you alone make. I wonder why you do. Yes, I am to blame for your not being married with children, but not for the reasons you've listed. You've made me the reason and that's what you should be trying to understand." 

"I don't blame you," John whispered, shaking his head. "I blame myself . . . blame myself because of how I feel about you and instead of admitting that I love you, I'm still trying to blend into normal life and I see these girls and I try to use them and I get in over my head because I don't _want_ them, Sherlock. I want to be with you and that's--that's what I've just realised," he finished. He took a step back, letting the words hang between them. 

Sherlock eyed John. He put his hand to his mouth and just stared at John then dropped his hand and looked into the space between them. "You've just now realised this, you say?"

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Just to clarify: you have been making yourself and me and countless boring, normal women miserable for months and the reason you have been doing this is because you love the person you live and work with and who obviously loves you and living and working with you. Forgive me my bluntness, John, but can you see there are some problems with your logic there?"

"Not for months because I didn't know, and what do you mean 'obviously' loves me back? You've not shown any obvious sign except being an arse to whatever girl I bring here. And if you're going to make fun of me I'd rather you said nothing at all," he finished angrily.

Sherlock smiled at John, trying to calm him down. "You forget I am better at deductions than you are, John. Better and faster. Did you not just say you realised that wanting to be with me all the time means you loved me? Did I not just admit that I call you because I need you and want to be with you all the time? Would that not therefore be evidence that I love you back?" He sat down on the sofa and motioned for John to sit next to him. "Fine. Let me be clearer. I have always preferred being on my own. Until I met you. I've never been concerned with others' emotions. Until I met you. I do not like when you are not in the same place as me. So yes, to me, it's obvious that I love you back. I'm sorry I've not made it clearer -- though, to be fair, I'm not sure you would've been ready to hear it anyway since you've only just had your own realisation. But I do apologise." And because he couldn't help himself, he added, "And the first time I noticed your miserable behaviour was eleven weeks and four days ago, which by definition, is 'months'. But let's not squabble over details." He tried to smile at John again.

John remained standing, listening to Sherlock explain. "Well, I can't read your mind and believe it or not people need to hear things like that," he said.

"John, please stop being so angry," Sherlock said honestly. "I might not experience sentiment in the same way as you, but I know what's nice to be told. Please remember that you've been telling me nothing but how miserable you are that no one wants you, how you want to find a woman and then when you do, you tell me how great she is. Those things weren't always nice for me to hear, but I just couldn't bring myself to say the truth. Have you really thought of how you'd have responded if I said I loved you -- weeks ago before you figured your own feelings out? Even now, John, you said you love me and I said I love you back and you are still angry at me. It's confusing."

"Well, you're yelling at me, making me feel stupid for not seeing this before." John sat down beside him. “I don't know how I would have reacted, but I didn't see my announcement coming with so much doubt," he shrugged. 

"I am not yelling, John," Sherlock said. "To be honest, I feel nervous about saying anymore, but could it be that while you have realised you have feelings you've been trying to get rid of, you haven't actually accepted those feelings? It's okay if that is the case. Perhaps that's why despite our both saying we love each other, this somehow doesn't seem like the happy moment one might have expected it to be." He felt . . . he didn't know actually.

"It's different than I expected because I wanted you to say that it was wonderful news because you love me too and my search is over," John said. "Just sentimental nonsense," he shrugged.

"I suppose that's what I was trying to say, but I'm sorry I didn't say it directly. Because it is what I feel. Sentimental nonsense or not," Sherlock was looking down at the floor. This hadn't gone well at all really. Perhaps his own words had been just as confusing as he had found John's. "I'm not very good at this, I'm afraid."

"I guess I'm not really either," John said, looking over at Sherlock. "I realised up there that I might have been bringing girls here on purpose, so you could do my dirty work and scare them off," he bit his lip. "I am sorry I did that to you."

"I didn't mind doing it," Sherlock admitted, "As I said, insulting boring people is a natural skill of mine; it was just strange that while I thought you might want me to do it, you got so angry that I did. I don't like it when you're angry, John. I know I'm not great at the friendship business, but I've never cared so much about. . . I just never want to let you down, and that feeling's new and I'm not always comfortable with it." 

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "You've never let me down," he smiled. 

Sherlock relaxed a bit and said, "That's reassuring. I suddenly feel rather insecure about everything. Which is strange because after I left your room earlier, all I felt was certain that the way you and I are together is absolutely perfect." He didn't pull away from John's hand, though; the touch was comforting.

John nodded. "I know. I've never been so nervous in my life even though you said you feel the same way," he said. 

"For two men who are clearly not as stupid as normal people, we've not been acting very clever," Sherlock laughed. He looked at the clock. "Shall we just do something usual for a minute -- rather than shouting or confessing our love -- should we just have a cup of tea, like we usually do before bed? I promise to drink it properly this time."

John nodded. "Yeah, all right." He stood up and pulled his hand away. "I'll make some."


	4. The Solution In Action

Sherlock followed John to the kitchen. He followed John to the kettle and then to the cupboard and then to the fridge. John bumped into him twice. Each time John made a move, Sherlock made a move. He was embarrassing himself, he knew, but he felt as if he couldn't help it. For so long, he had wanted to be as physically close as he felt they were emotionally close and now he felt more free to be so. However, when John bumped into him for the third time, Sherlock said, "I'm sorry I'm in the way." Then quietly he added, "I just feel like I don't want to not be right by you," realising the utter stupidity of the sentence.

John grinned and shook his head. "I don't mind at all," he assured him. "I like having you close."

"It could be dangerous, though, so let me know if you intend to pick up any knives," Sherlock was smiling, looking into John's eyes. "Leave the mugs for a minute," he said and he pressed himself into John, pushing him against the worktop. He put his face in front of John's and said, "I'm going to kiss you" before immediately kissing him firmly on the lips. 

"Oh, but the kettle will -- " John started, but the rest was lost in a soft hum. He gripped Sherlock's waist and pulled him close, gladly kissing him back. 

Sherlock kept kissing John. It was like he was making up for all the times the idea has popped into his head -- the first few times it happened and he shrugged it off, the times when he knew it must have some significance, the time when he knew it meant that he, of all people, was in love. He kissed John all those kisses. The kiss was tender and tentative while being urgent and urging. It was their whole lifetime together thus far, and it meant something big. 

It was perfect, and John was completely lost in it. The only thing that existed was Sherlock and his soft lips and he beautiful hands. He only gripped Sherlock harder, pressing into the kiss. 

Sherlock slipped his hands to John's hair, holding John's head as they kissed. It was so good, so right. Sherlock didn't just love John, he wanted him. He let go of John's head and pulled John into the living room. He pressed him against the wall, kissing again, harder this time, before desperately trying to pull John's jumper over his head.

John moaned when he hit the wall, kissing Sherlock harder and more desperately. He wanted his jumper off but he wanted the buttons on Sherlock's shirt open too, so he worked on those. 

For a moment there was an awkward scramble of limbs as both tried to undress the other. But Sherlock didn't care, because this was John -- they had been through awkward before, they had been through dangerous before, they had been through almost everything before and they always came out all right. So would this. He lifted John's arms, pulled the jumper over his head, and then led his hands back to Sherlock's shirt buttons. He started to unbuckle John's belt.

John sighed when his hands were forced to stop, but they were back again in no time. Once the buttons were open, he slipped the shirt off of his shoulders, pushing his arms away so the shirt would fall to the ground. He ran his hands along Sherlock's torso before moving his lips to Sherlock's neck. John groaned against Sherlock's skin, sucking and nipping desperately.

Sherlock's hands stopped as John kissed his neck. He wished he could freeze time and never do anything again except experience the sensation of John's mouth moving along his skin. But then he snapped back into the moment, undid John's trousers and slipped his hand inside gripping John's cock. It was hot and hard in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock pushed his hips against John's and the pressure of his own cock against his hand holding John's made his body ache. He reluctantly let John go but only to pull his trousers down to give him better access. Then he slipped back around John and began stroking as his other hand pressed into John's bare chest. 

John's head fell back against the wall with a heavy thunk,but he didn't care. Heat exploded in his body as he bucked into Sherlock's hand. His hands were gripping Sherlock's arms tightly. 

Sherlock keep pressing into John, rocking slightly against his hip. He kept a firm pressure as he pulled John's cock. The movement of both of their bodies was frenetic. He slid his mouth to John's ear, licking the damp skin, and into his ear, he growled, "Come, John. Come right now in my hand. Don't worry, we've got all night for more. But I want you to come, John." 

John whimpered and Christ, how could he not? He thrust forward wildly and came into Sherlock's hand, moaning his name and digging his fingers into Sherlock's skin. 

The jolt of John's body hit Sherlock's and for a moment, he couldn't breathe -- he wondered if John's orgasm alone had caused his own. He found his senses and kissed John's panting mouth. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg and then reached up and held John's head, letting it rest on Sherlock's shoulder as John panted against him.

Every exhale had Sherlock's name on it, his hands clutching Sherlock's waist desperately as he caught his breath.

Sherlock petted John's head and thought for a moment of how strangely this night had gone. How odd it had been being at the club, how they had argued in a loud and dramatic fashion, and how they were standing here against the wall. He kissed John's head and slowly moved them both to the sofa, letting their weight drop onto the cushions.

That had been one of John's most intense orgasms and all from a hand job. He leaned over and pecked kisses on Sherlock's cheek and neck as his breath became more normal.

Sherlock relaxed into the comfort and John's kisses. He wanted to say something, but didn't know what. So he settled on, "That was beautiful" as he ran his hand up John's back.

John hummed against his skin, continuing to kiss him softly. He slid his hand down Sherlock's torso and palmed at his cock, very evident through his trousers.

Sherlock's entire body felt warm -- the heat emanated from John's hand, through Sherlock's veins, and flushed his face. He closed his eyes and arched his back slightly. "John," he said, for no particular reason. His hand on John's back stopped moving and just pressed into the skin.

John's fingers pulled at the button, then the zip, and then pressed into his erection through his pants. His lips continued softly as he stroked the soft cotton, hot with Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock lifted his hips to meet John's hand. He stopped trying to think of words and instead just let out a small noise. He licked his lips and gripped the edge of the sofa cushion with his free hand.

After a bit John pushed his hand into Sherlock's pants, tugging the fabric away and stroking him. His hand moved slowly to match his kisses, at least for now.

After the frenzy by the wall, the slow movement on the sofa was nice. The weight of John's body next to him made Sherlock feel safe. He lifted his head to kiss John's cheek and sank back into the pillow, letting all his muscles relax so he felt nothing but John's touch.

John licked his lips as he watched his hand moving along Sherlock's shaft. He glanced up at Sherlock and then back down again. Biting his lip, he dipped down and sucked Sherlock into his mouth, bobbing slowly.

Sherlock gasped at John's movement -- it surprised him but it was also so . . . good. John's wet, warm mouth held him. Every single movement of John's tongue, just the presence of John's tongue, urged Sherlock further into pleasure. His hand on John's back moved to John's head, not pushing, just resting, connecting.

John hummed softly, taking in a bit more each time he came down and flicking his tongue over the tip when he came up. He'd never seen the appeal of this until now, knowing how good it would feel for Sherlock and wanting to be the one that made him feel that way.

While Sherlock would have been happy for this to go on forever, he could feel the pressure building within him. He was mindful of the newness for John so said, "John, careful. It's just so . . . good. If you keep going . . . I'm . . . I'm close."

John hummed around him and kept going. He didn't know what to expect but he wanted to do this for Sherlock. He moved up a bit and stroked the bottom half.

Sherlock slid his hand down his body and touched John's cheek softly. Then he let his hand fall to his thigh, pausing to breathe deeply. He reached down to pull gently on his balls and whispered to John, "A little faster with your hand and keep doing that at the tip. It's perfect."

John hummed and moved up a bit more, sucking hard on the tip and flicking his tongue over it regularly. His hand moved faster, stroking his shaft.

Then Sherlock's hand went to John's hair, pulling it as his body arched. He called John's name, and all the muscles in his body tensed from the very top of his head to his toes which curled. He let out a noise that was almost a cry for help. He came into John's mouth, and his body froze in its tension.

John inhaled sharply through his nose even though he'd known it was coming. He choked for one second before quickly swallowing and then adjusting to continue through Sherlock's orgasm.

And then suddenly, Sherlock's whole body released, both arms dropped, and his toes uncurled. He let out a long, slow exhale. His mouth was dry and he swallowed. He looked down at John and said, "You okay?" 

John pulled off slowly and swallowed once more, swiping his chin with his thumb before nodding and sitting up again.

Sherlock lifted his head to try to read John's face. He didn't want to make a problem where there wasn't one, but given what had happened earlier, he knew that this was potentially a really big deal. "Come here," he said, lifting his arms, inviting John to snuggle next to him.

John curled into him and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's middle. "It wasn't bad," John said quietly. He closed his eyes with a small, content sigh. "I wanted to do it . . . I would again for you."

Sherlock smiled. He thought about making a quip, he thought about teasing John, but instead he said, "It's all going to be okay now, I think. This is how it was supposed to be from the beginning. It just took us a while." He stroked John's arm and kissed the top of his head.


	5. Time For More

"What shall we do now?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged lightly. "You said there would be time for more . . . but this is nice, too," he said. 

Sherlock laughed. "Aren't you eager? Is this the same John Watson who was shouting at me earlier? Yes, I guess it is -- once you make a decision, that's it. That's good, I like that." His voice changed slightly. "Okay then, what more is it that you want? I want you to say it."

John bit his lip and looked up at Sherlock, shifting up a bit so he could reach his ear. "I want to have sex with you," he whispered. 

"Not good enough," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Considering what's happened to both of us in the last hour, one could argue that we have already been having sex. Say what you mean." He was watching John's face -- he wasn't trying to bully him; if John's face turned in any way, this little game would be over. But Sherlock found John's eagerness quite sexy and wondered how far he could take it.

John looked back at Sherlock, smiling softly. "You like dirty talk, don't you?" 

Sherlock smiled. "I really don't know," he said. "I think it's just you . . . you struggled for so long and now you're confident. I like it." He gave John the eye and added, "Are you implying that what you want is very dirty then?"

John nodded. "I can say it however you want to hear it," he smiled. 

"Go on, then," Sherlock said cheekily. "Give us the dirty version."

John leaned up close to his ear again, pressing his lips against it. "I want you to fuck me right here on the sofa," he breathed. "Fuck me so I can't walk tomorrow."

It surprised Sherlock, but it turned out he did indeed like dirty talk. "All right, John," he said. "I will give you what you want. I intend to fuck you senseless." Then he shifted to sit up. "But first I am going to get us a drink of water. And you need to retrieve something from my bedside table. You'll know what it is when you see it. Go get it now."

John threw him a look at his technical response but he obeyed, going into Sherlock's room and opening the drawer. He snatched up the bottle of lube and went back to the couch smiling.

Sherlock came back to the sofa with two cups of water. "Well done," he said, when he saw the bottle John was holding. "Take a drink," he commanded. As John lifted the glass to his lips, Sherlock said, "If this is your first time, walking might be difficult regardless of how I do it. How do you want me to do it, John? I'll do whatever you want, but I need to know first. Rough? Slow? What?"

"Slow at first . . .then we can go from there," John said.

Sherlock smiled as he reached to put his hand on John's shoulder. He said in a soft but serious voice, "Just promise you'll tell me straight away what's good and what's not, okay? Not only is there time tonight for more, there's the rest of our lives. Not everything has to happen this go. So just tell me, okay?" He took the water glass from John's hand and set it on the table. "One more question: The sofa's too confining. We could use the floor or do you want to go into the bedroom? It doesn't matter to me."

"The bedroom," John nodded. "That'll be better, I think."

"Excellent choice. Yours or mine? Lead the way." Sherlock picked up one glass of water and the bottle of lube. He didn't mean to sound so practical about the whole thing; he just wanted to assure John that things were under control -- that John needn't worry he'd get swept up into something that he wasn't ready for.

John hesitated getting up. "I don't like this," he shook his head. "Let's wait so it's more spontaneous," he smiled softly.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. "I just want everything to be right." He thought about the cab ride and the argument and how he'd had much more time to think about things and how John's getting upset made him feel so horrible. And while he didn't want to introduce this into the conversation, he also thought about the first time someone had done to him what he was going to do to John. It was a long time ago, back in college, and while it certainly wasn't a bad memory, it could have been a much better one. Plus he hadn't had the baggage about the 'gay thing' as John obviously had. Instead he said, "You're right, of course. Look, it's ridiculously late and we're naked in the living room. Let's just go to bed. Would it be all right if we slept together?"

"Yes, of course," John nodded. He stood up and took his hand.

"Shall we sleep in yours or mine?" 

"Yours," John smiled.  

Sherlock led them into his room. He set down the glass of water he was still carrying and dropped the bottle into the top drawer of his bedside table. "I sleep on this side, but you can have it if you want," he said, lifting the duvet and climbing in. Now under the covers, he realised how cold he had been. He wriggled his legs under the sheet and said, "Hurry, it's lovely and warm."

"I don't mind taking the other side," John smiled, climbing into the bed and moving close to Sherlock. 

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John and pulled him closer. "I should've cleaned up the spilt tea in your bedroom," he said. Their heads were sharing one pillow, and Sherlock turned to look nose-to-nose with John. He smiled with his mouth and his eyes and leaned in to give John a good night kiss. But once their lips met, the kiss changed and images of what happened in the living room -- against the wall, on the sofa -- flashed in Sherlock's mind. He shifted his body so it was now facing John's and slid his other hand around his neck as he snuck his tongue between John's lips.

"It's okay," John smiled, his eyes moving all over Sherlock's face, which was so very close. When he leaned John smiled contently and kissed him back, expecting a quick peck. But this was not a quick peck. John shifted and rolled into Sherlock, fingers digging into his chest lightly. 

Sherlock tangled his legs in John's. His mouth moved down to John's neck, licking and sucking. His hands slid down John's back and rested on his hips, which Sherlock pulled closer to his own.

John started panting softly, tilting his head to the side. He arched and pushed into Sherlock's touch, heat flooding every nerve in his body. 

Sherlock could feel the increase in John's pulse against his lips on John's neck. Both their bodies were hot, John's hot breath on his skin was doing things to Sherlock. He moved his mouth to John's ear, letting his own breath hit John's skin.

John shuddered against Sherlock, goose bumps erupting all over his body. "Sherlock . . ." he breathed heavily. 

Sherlock pulled his body back slightly, giving just enough space between them for him to slide his hand down to John's cock. It, too, was warm and he began to stroke it. He pressed his mouth into John's mouth -- moving his lips and tongue across John's lips then cheeks.

John closed his eyes, his breathing more erratic as he thrust into Sherlock's hand, getting harder by the second. 

"Lay back," Sherlock whispered, pressing John flat onto the bed. He reached over to the drawer, retrieving the lube and a condom. He poured some on his hand and then stroked John's cock, slicking it. Then he led John's hand to his cock. "Keep your hand moving, but don't let yourself come," he instructed.

John nodded, stroking himself slowly but regularly. He bit his lip, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

"No matter what, you say stop, and I stop, okay?" Sherlock said and then moved down John's body. As he passed John's moving hand, he kissed the fingers and flicked his tongue across the tip of his cock. Then he settled himself between John's legs and began massaging his thighs, moving his hands inward at the end of each stroke. He poured a little more lube into his palm and rubbed his hands together to warm it. Then he held John's balls, pulling gently, before rubbing his perineum. He let the tips of his fingers brush over John's hole, slicking the whole area.

John nodded again. "Oh," he moaned as he felt Sherlock's lips and tongue. And then his hand . . . those beautiful hands were touching him so perfectly, so loving and gentle. John closed his eyes, and let his body fully feel everything. 

Sherlock kept his movements slow and steady and gentle. This wasn't about breaking a taboo or pushing John's boundaries, he knew, it was about loving John and wanting him to feel good. As his index finger passed over John's opening, he let it stay, putting just a bit of pressure, before moving it again. He did this a few times before finally he pushed in -- slowly, steadily, gently.

John gasped softly, biting his lip as Sherlock pushed into him. His hand had stopped as he focused on the feeling of that, but as he adjusted he started up again. 

Sherlock kept his rhythm, each time pushing just a bit further in. He twisted his finger slightly, curling in. He placed his other hand on John's for a moment, to remind John of all that was happening--rather than just focusing on one thing. Everything was so warm and wet, Sherlock could feel the dampness of his own sweat on his back. The intensity of what was happening was filling the room. 

John moaned as he laced their fingers together, holding his hand tightly. "M-more," he pleaded quietly. 

Sherlock curled his middle finger, sliding it in as well. He was moving a little faster now, a little harder, but still keeping things controlled. His other hand held his own cock for a moment, just stroking to ease its ache. He could feel his hips mimic the rhythm of his hand, he knew he was ready. He just needed to make sure John was.

John moaned loudly, feeling himself stretch around Sherlock's fingers. When Sherlock's hand slipped away, he gripped the sheet instead.

Sherlock slipped a third finger in, but slowed his movement. The pressure of his fingers was opening John up, relaxing the muscles. Sherlock's cock was aching. "Turn over, John," he whispered, "and lift yourself up." He pulled his fingers out slowly and waited for John to move.

"Okay," he whispered, moving slowly onto his knees and bending forward onto the bed. He turned his head, so he could try and look at Sherlock. 

"You're beautiful," Sherlock said, looking into John's eyes. He reached around John's waist and stroked his cock as Sherlock pushed his own against John's lifted hips. Then he said, "Rest your head on the pillow so you can keep your hand free," as he reached to bring John's hand back to stroke himself. "Don't think, just feel. It all is going to feel good, John, that's all that should be in your head."

John nodded again, unable to even argue with his compliments. He stroked himself and moaned loudly.

Sherlock's hands went to John's hips, pulling them a few times to him as if to give John a preview of the movement. Then his hands wandered down John's cheeks, gripping them softly to separate them. He rolled on a condom, slicked himself and lined up to John. He pushed in a bit and then put his hands back on John's hips, pulling on them as he continued to lean into John.

John's mouth fell open to a silent moan, his hands tightly holding Sherlock's on his hips.

Sherlock moved into a rhythm, solid but not rough. John's tightness felt incredible. Sherlock could feel sweat on his forehead but he didn't lift his hands to wipe it away, they stayed on John's hips, rocking them back into Sherlock's.

"Christ that's . . . good," John moaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

It was good for Sherlock too. They were feeling different things, he knew, but in addition to the pleasure was the relief that John was enjoying it. Sherlock hoped one day John would be able to feel what he was feeling, give him the feeling he was giving John. He stayed with a slower rhythm but moved a little harder into John. He wanted to be more inside, more connected. Sounds were coming from his mouths, but they weren't words.

John grunted with each movement. He felt Sherlock push deeper and a shock of pleasure spiked through him, making him call out.

John's noises were sexy and Sherlock's senses were moving into overload -- it was like everything was filling him up until he was ready to overflow. He tried to think. "John," he managed to say, "I'm close. Use your hand." It took everything to make the words, and he tried in vain to control the overwhelming urge that was building.

John nodded against the bed, sliding his hand down and stroking himself hard and fast. "I'm c-close . . ." he breathed. 

Sherlock's body was now out of his control. He pushed into John, gripping his hips hard. The whole bed was shaking. He felt the build peak and cried John's name as he came. He crumpled onto John's back, sliding one hand up into his hair and the other around John's chest.

"Fuck," John groaned, pulling hard on himself until he came all over the bed, shouting for Sherlock.  The arm holding him up was shaking as waves coursed through him.

Sherlock slid from John's back to the bed, moving over to give John enough room to lie down. He was still trying to catch his breath, and his skin was starting to feel a bit clammy as his body heat began to lower. He looked at John, reached out to touch him as he was settling. "You okay?" he said quietly.

John nodded as he fell onto the bed, wincing slightly as he smiled over at Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his body around John's. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I hope it was worth it. I hope it what was what you wanted."

"It was," John smiled. He kissed Sherlock and smiled wider.

Sherlock kissed John's lips quickly a few times and snuggled into his shoulder. "It's four o'clock in the morning and you've spent the night out clubbing and then home shagging. Didn't you say at one point tonight that you were no longer a teenager? You seem to be living the life of one," he teased.

John laughed against Sherlock's head. "It's your fault," he teased.

"Don't blame me -- I was happy to hook you up with that woman at the club and leave you to your own devices. But you insisted on coming home with me and doing that thing you do with your face when you're angry which I now understand means 'Please fuck me, Sherlock.'"

John laughed harder. "You're so much prettier," he smiled.

"Very true," Sherlock said, moving away to stretch his arms. "But I didn't think it was appropriate to say." He turned to look at John and with a more serious tone said, "Do you think we might do this again sometime? Or was it more of a one-off, just to experiment?"

"Of course we will . . . I mean, I hope so," he said. He met his gaze. "I really do love you," he said.

"I love you, John," Sherlock put his hands on John's cheek and kissed him softly. "I also love the fucking," he added cheekily, "but that too is only because I love you so much."

"The fucking is pretty good," John nodded.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, "Perhaps the appeal was just the taboo. There's nothing new now to intrigue you, everything's been done now," he said teasing, "You'll soon grow bored with me, I fear." He was smiling.

"Shut up," John laughed. "There's a ton more things we can do . . . more places we could do it on," John grinned.

Sherlock laughed aloud. "Oh my god, what have I got myself into? Fine. Where's the next place we're going to do it and what are we going to do?"

"How do you feel about bottoming?" John asked softly.

Sherlock looked at John. "I would very much like that," he said sincerely, slipping his hand into John's, before adding ". . . depending on where we were, of course. In the back of Lestrade's car? I may have to reconsider my answer."

"My office," John smiled. "Bent over the table."

"You dirty little fucker," Sherlock laughed. "Tell me a secret: is that the first time you've ever thought of that? Or perhaps you've spent some time thinking about it before all this happened?"

John shoved him lightly but laughed as well. "I've thought about it before," he admitted.

Sherlock smiled. "That's sweet -- perverted but sweet. Please tell me you have a lock on your office door."

"I do have a lock on the door," John nodded. "Could you be quiet enough?" 

"I can't believe you're serious," Sherlock said. "However, I could be quiet enough if that's what you really want to do. But not the first time. I don't want to have to be quiet the first time. I want to be able to make as much noise as I feel like making. Give me that, yeah?"

John smiled and nodded. "I didn't say we'd run in there tomorrow," he teased. "I couldn't be quiet," he added. 

"I very much liked hearing your noises. Very sexy," he said, licking up John's neck to his ear.

John grinned. "I'm glad you think so," he said. 

"Make some noises now," Sherlock purred into John's ear. His hand stroked the skin of John's stomach.

John breathed out heavily, his stomach twitching under his touch. "Like what?" he breathed. 

"I liked the gasps . . . and the moans . . . " Sherlock kept licking John's skin. "And when you said my name . . ."

John moaned softly, leaning his head to the side. 

"Yes, that is definitely sexy," Sherlock said, sliding his hand from John's belly to his hip. He kissed John's mouth hard, slipping his tongue in to find John's. He nipped at it, then bit softly into John's bottom lip. He slid down slightly and began kissing John's chest, drawing circles with his tongue around each nipple before he sucked hard on them. "Say my name," he said.

John started breathing heavy, moaning louder as they kissed so deeply. And then Sherlock was moving down and John was panting, arching up into his mouth. "Sherlock," he breathed. "Sherlock," he said again a bit stronger. 

"John," Sherlock breathed onto John's skin, and his head lowered further down his body. When he got to John's cock, he lightly flicked his tongue over it and blew softly onto the tip, before putting his mouth over it. He moved his tongue, covering it in his spit.

John whimpered as the heat started building in his lower stomach, his cock rising with each kiss. "Fuck . . . Sherlo--" The name was lost in a loud moan, the cool air making him shudder as he was lost in the wet warmth of Sherlock's mouth. His fingers laced into Sherlock's hair, his hips writhing lightly.

Sherlock took more of John into mouth. One of his hands held the base of John's cock, the other held John's balls. He wanted to be tender with John's body, but at the same time, he wanted him so much, being with him felt so good. He wanted more like he could never get enough.

John propped himself up on his elbow to watch, almost biting through his lip with lust. He dropped back onto the bed with a sigh, moaning loudly.

John's noises . . . Sherlock really did love hearing them, they fed an electricity inside and he continued sucking and licking John. He tasted of sex -- the whole room smelled of sex -- and it was theirs.

Sherlock slipped his lips around the tip and sucked gently. Then he let go and moved up, closer to John's face. "Are you too tired to try fucking me?" he said quietly.

Despite his exhaustion, John opened his eyes and shook his head, starting to sit up.

Sherlock smiled at John. "We don't have to . . . " he said, "but you brought it up and now it's in my head."

"How do you want to be?" John asked.

"Whatever you feel most comfortable with" was Sherlock's answer because it was true. He wanted John inside him, he didn't really care how he got there. "You tell me."

"Stay on your back," John said quietly, reaching for the lube. His hands shook just slightly as he poured some into his hand, rubbing it into his fingers. He brought his hand down and massaged Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock did as John said. He watched him. When he felt John's touch, he made a little hum. It had been a very long time since he'd been touched there. Despite being tired, he was a little nervous and his muscles had tensed. He exhaled John's name and tried to relax his body.

John bit his lip and pushed his finger into Sherlock, watching his face the whole time.

"Oh god," Sherlock said. It was good, it felt good, like finally sharing a secret that had been carried around for years. His legs moved apart, inviting John. "More," he whispered.

John added a second finger, pumping gently as he stretched them apart. Watching Sherlock's face was making him even harder, and he stroked himself with his other hand.

"John, it feels good," Sherlock moaned. He couldn't explain just how good it felt. The connection -- the feeling of being filled in a place he didn't know had been empty, had been waiting to be filled. He closed his eyes, sank into it. His hips were rocking, pushing himself against John's fingers, letting them go deeper, feeling them opening him.

John reached for his prostate, stroking gently against it when he pushed his fingers into Sherlock.

"Fuck," Sherlock whispered, He let go of every thought, the pleasure in one part of his body filled his whole body, but more importantly filled his head. "John . . . John . . . god," he couldn't make any sense but didn't care.

John continued for a few more moments before pulling his fingers out, slipping on a condom and lining up with his entrance. He hovered over Sherlock, leaned down to kiss him and pushed into him slowly.

Sherlock gasped into John's mouth. He kissed him hard. The slowness of John's movement . . . it was almost painfully perfect. Sherlock moved his lips against John's, like he was speaking but there were no words. He lifted his knees, wanting to be filled by John.

John sank all the way, kissing Sherlock hard as he pulled out and pushed in again. The tight heat felt incredible, and he broke the kiss to moan loudly. 

Sherlock really did love John's sounds. "John . . ." he said, "John, harder, please. . . "

John nodded and started a quick rhythm, thrusting harder into Sherlock.

With each thrust, he felt his body arch. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked into John's. "Tell me something," he whispered. "I want to hear your voice."

John moved his head down to press his lips against Sherlock's ear. "You feel so good," he breathed. Each thrust forward was accompanied by small grunts. “You look . . .so gorgeous.”

Sherlock's noises matched John's. He curled his legs around John's body, doing his best to muster the little energy left in his body to lift his hips as John pushed in. The friction of their bodies made his cock hot. He licked his palm and snuck his hand between their bodies just to hold it--everything else was almost too intense for him to think of anything else. He wrapped his long fingers around it and moved its angle so the pressure of John's thrusts hit it just right.

John could feel Sherlock against his belly, making him moan and arch and buck harder. "I'm close . . . fuck," he mumbled, his hips now moving almost wildly.

"Come inside," Sherlock said, "and say my name." Now he was pulling on himself, he was so close and wanted to come to John's voice.

John pushed into him and came, calling out his name, pressing his lips to his ear and breathing his name against it over and over. Every muscle tensed and he collapsed onto Sherlock, panting and shaking.

The force of John's body pressing into his, the noises, the heat of the movement . . . Sherlock felt all of it building in his cock and with a few quick strokes, he let go and arched his body as he came against both their stomachs. His chest heaved, for a minute he thought he couldn't breathe and then his senses returned and he remembered where he was and snuck his arms around John and they both did their best to recover. 

John couldn't open his eyes, his mind fuzzy as he tried to catch his breath. He'd never felt so exhausted or happy or good before.

Sherlock kissed John's face, sliding his hands up into John's hair. He was so drained but he managed to smile and whisper, "John. I think we have to stop for a while. Anymore tonight and we may end up dead, which is probably not the best way to start a relationship."

John's face pulled itself into a smile. "You started it," he managed, finally breathing a bit more normally.

"I absolutely did and I do not regret it," Sherlock said, "but already it's likely we'll both sleep all day and be wobbly when we eventually manage to get up." He kissed John once more and said, "I mean it. I 'm so glad for everything that's happened tonight -- even the argument because it led to all this." 

John nodded against him, already starting to doze off. He felt good -- it all felt good. It was different but the same. It was exactly what he'd been looking for.


End file.
